


Barbers

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:07:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29296374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir finally has his own chair at Imladris.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel/Lindir
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Barbers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s not like he’s never cut hair before—he’s helped Elrond dozens of times, aided other stylists, even finished up here and there, but those were all done with supervision and the gentle guidance of long-time professionals. Sure, he cuts his own hair in the washroom mirror at home—or used to, before Elrond so graciously volunteered to give him cuts on the house, which he at first profusely refused before spluttering into gratitude and acceptance—and he’s given a few select friends trims on occasion, but the stakes were always lower. His first day as an actual _stylist_ , no longer just the owner’s faithful assistant, Lindir’s _petrified._

He hovers by the front desk, casting a thin shadow over Elrond’s son and receptionist, and tries not to vibrate onto a whole new frequency. Aragorn tells him more than once, “Relax. It’s a slow day—you’ve only got one client.”

“What if that client is a dwarf?” Lindir mutters under his breath, which is an unseemly statement, but a valid concern—he’s nowhere near qualified to cut a ferocious mane and feral beard. He doesn’t even think he can handle the long locks of another elf. He keeps hoping for a quaint little Halfling with a mess of tight curls that will hide all his sins.

Aragorn doesn’t reiterate that there’s no way to know, as that first client didn’t leave a name, and instead insists, “You’ll be fine.” He says it with utter confidence, but then, Aragorn posses exceptional confidence, because he’s exceptional at everything he does, so of course he wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be a nervous wreck. At least he’s kind about it, always kind, even though Lindir must be testing his last nerve. The weekend receptionist—another burly human with straight honey-coloured hair and a short beard—would just ignore him.

Lindir’s still biting his bottom lip, holding back another splurge of self-doubt, when the little bell above the door rings. Aragorn straightens up, looking suave yet inviting and all the things that Lindir isn’t. The glass door swings open, and a tall, slender elf with gorgeous gold hair strolls across the stone floor. He makes the colourful potted plants on either side of the entrance look like muted pastels. He puts the portraits of models along the walls to shame. He takes off his dark sunglasses when he stops at the desk, and Lindir recognizes those bright blue eyes. There’s a lump in his throat. This can’t be it. 

“I thought I recognized that voice,” Aragorn smoothly greets. “It’s good to see you, Legolas. I’m glad you took my recommendation.”

“How could I not?” Legolas answers, smiling wide at his host, and it only makes him all the more beautiful. He’s _almost_ as handsome as Lindir’s mentor. It’s the most intimidating situation possible. “You made it sound so lovely here.” He pauses to glance around at the décor, pretty and well-kept but still humble—nothing like the ostentatious palace his father owns. “And I must say, you were right.”

Of course Lindir knows of Legolas. His father’s renowned across the entire kingdom. His salon is the most expensive, most luxurious experience imaginable. It’s the kind of place Lindir himself could never afford to go—although, to be fair, he wouldn’t want to; he’s already enamored with Elrond’s sweet and homely Imladris. 

“Just wait until you have your haircut,” Aragorn promises, before, to Lindir’s horror, gesturing at him. “This is your stylist, Lindir. He was Elrond’s assistant, so you know he learned from the best.”

“I am sure,” Legolas agrees, smiling jovially at Lindir, even though Lindir’s practically a peasant in the face of a prince. 

He opens his mouth to say thanks, but instead squeaks, “Ah... are you sure you would not want someone more... experienced?” He can feel his cheeks heating. Legolas’ hair looks like pure silk, the kind of thing that belongs in magazines and on billboards. Wholly embarrassed, he adds, “I’m sure Arwen will be finished soon—”

“Ah, your sister,” Legolas cuts in, glancing at Aragorn, who he clearly knows. Which doesn’t help at all. Aragorn’s own dark hair is a perpetually tossed like a rugged adventurer, a natural perfection Lindir could never hope to achieve. To Lindir, Legolas finishes, “As talented as she must be, I’m sure you will be just fine.”

“But...” Lindir flounders, quite sure he won’t be. “You see, I know that your father does such elaborate styles, and—”

“And that is exactly why I’m here instead,” Legolas cuts in. He takes a longer look around the empty lobby—Elrond’s salon always moves smoothly, scheduling properly, and rarely leaves customers waiting. There’s no one in the front, although the sounds of blow driers and quiet chatter lilt on behind them. Legolas leans across the desk anyway to quietly iterate, “To be honest, as much as I love Adar... I am not the biggest fan of fancy braids and accessories. I am a simple being, and I would like a simple cut.”

Aragorn quirks a conspirator’s smile, as though Legolas takes after his own heart—as though the two of them could run off into the mountains at any moment, content to live free and true with brambles in their fraying split ends. But then, it’s hard to imagine a creature so fair as Legolas sporting split ends. 

Lindir still isn’t convinced. Of course he can do all the simple cuts in his sleep. Legolas seems friendly enough. Lindir tells himself there’s no reason to be afraid. He sucks in a deep breath but only feels minutely better.

Mithrandir sweeps by the corner of his eye, doddering out from the salon floor and stopping at the desk. He already paid upfront, always does, but is going slowly anyway as he speaks with Elrond, the master who tamed his frantic mat. His beard is still absurdly long, but he does, at least, look a tad better than when he came in. 

Elrond follows him and asks, “Would you please schedule Mithrandir for another cut next month?” Aragorn nods and immediately does so, tapping away at the keyboard as easily as he handles a sword. 

Mithrandir murmurs, “Thank you, Aragorn. It’s good to see you. And Legolas, my boy. How fares the Woodland Realm?”

“Green as ever,” Legolas responds, offering Mithrandir a wide grin. 

“Good, good. I have a feeling my next road may take me there, and that I shall see both of you soon enough, and a few friends more, for an unexpected journey.”

“I look forward to it,” Legolas answers, even though that sounded like gibberish to Lindir. Mithrandir nods and pulls his hat out of his cavernous robes, tilting it once before wading towards the door. 

“I see you are scheduled with Lindir,” Elrond tells Legolas, who he must know, because Elrond knows everyone important, even if he acts so very humble himself. “You happen to be in luck. He is a wonderfully talented young thing and offers the most delightful company.”

All at once, Lindir’s red-hot. He’s blushing right to his toes. Elrond’s come to stand behind him, and he can feel the arm reaching around him, giving him a small but tender hug of confidence and affection. Lindir looks up at his mentor, boss, and the keeper of his heart, and feels wholly bolstered to see that fondness returned. 

Elrond has faith in him. Perhaps that should only give him more pressure, as Aragorn and Legolas’ faith did, but it doesn’t. He trusts Elrond implicitly. If Elrond thinks he’s ready, then he must be. 

For the first time that afternoon, he dons a genuine smile. Elrond returns it. 

Aragorn informs him, “Bilbo called to say he’ll be late—it seems he had a bought of inspiration and is busy with his book. But I had a feeling he would so allowed time for lateness, and it shouldn’t push anything back.”

“Thank you,” Elrond tells him. “I may need the time anyway—I fear I have a new grey carpet all over my station.”

“Oh, I can—” Lindir starts, ready to help, but then he quiets when he remembers that he’s no longer someone else’s assistant. Legolas is standing there, politely waiting. Elrond smiles softly, as though he knows exactly what Lindir was going to offer and is proud that Lindir stopped. 

Lindir sucks in a deep breath. Then he gestures towards the salon floor and asks, “Shall we get started?”

Legolas answers, “Gladly,” and strolls on to _Lindir’s_ chair.


End file.
